Kingfisher

The fate of this man or that man was less than a drop, although it was a sparkling one, in the great blue motion of the sunlit sea. T. H. White

I never would have thought I would be writing anything like what I envision this blog becoming: a defense of all things classic.

There is a lot from the past we need to free ourselves from and I know this. By ‘Classic,’ however, I am referring to artistic achievement, not philosophical or political progress. To put it bluntly, I have had all the reality shows and hip 3-minute ditties I can stand. I realize that art has always wedded to commerce (or, in the spirit of things, You may never have known about Michelangelo without Medici…if you don’t know you better ask somebody), but these days commerce is so brazen as to be almost admirable in its single-minded pursuit of our wallets, utilizing or discarding genuine achievement depending on what will give it the most return for its investment.

Television is an easy target for this charge. Now, there is nothing wrong with television. I like television. With so many stations there is almost always something good (or sexy) on. But with the suits targeting the greatest viewing demographic at all times, anything and everything else is squeezed out. What’s discouraging is, as lowdown as these suitheads are, it is not their fault. The good stuff would get produced if we watched it, but we tend not to (this means you, Firefly…I still can’t believe you’re gone).

Anyway, I recently read a movie critic who observed that people don’t read any more. Of course this is not true and everyone knows it, even me. The remark was a joke and maybe I, two years from 40, am in my dotage now and losing my sense of humor. What he slyly meant is that people don’t read books anymore. An exaggeration, yes, but was it so far off the mark? Look at the recent devolving of the language because of texting and other nonsense: OMG ILMAO RU OK? From ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day, thou art more lovely…’ to ‘I©U.’ There is much to be said for brevity, but at least as much should be said for sincerity. (Is it ironic that I want to defend the printed word through an entirely electronic medium? Let’s just continue.)

I will probably concentrate mostly on writing here because that is what I am most familiar with, but that’s not to say a brand of alcohol, a piece of music, a comedy routine, even television does not qualify: anything you can name. A classic, in my own worthless peon definition, can be anything where something sublimely human was produced. What standard will I use? My own arbitrary standardless one. It could be 10 years old or 1010 years old, legendary or obscure. Excellence is acquired and fame is accidental, and that means if I want to spend 5,000 words on Nowhere Man by the Beatles or the Scrubs in-house singing quartet, I will, whether anyone reads it or not.

I realize a degree in English literature does not automatically qualify me to judge anything, and I definitely won’t claim to be the expert in culture someone like Kenneth Clark was (reverse compliment to myself, name-dropping while professing humility…keep up!), but I have a strong attitude about truly great achievements not getting their due or being forgotten. An obscure blog won’t help much, but at the least it will help me clear my conscience. Also, please don’t let the word culture throw you off. I know when most people hear that expression they tend to think of dusty books, boring music, and unrelatable paintings, but classics become classics for a reason, and it is not just to torture students. Stirring speeches, breathless tales of escape, sounds of sadness and drops of loneliness. It is all there. Life, as it is and as we want it to be.

Let my career as an old fogy begin.